Red Flag.
I was early.
I sat at the bar.
When you arrived, I knew immediately it was you.
You were a mountain of a man.
Tall. Very tall.
Big. All around.
You sat with your short sleeved bare arm on the bar.
Your psoriasis inflamed.
I was ashamed at my internal superficial reaction.
We talked. Laughed a little.
We moved outside.
We stood.
We talked.
You were oblivious to my needs as we continued to stand.
Me in heels.
The night grew cold.
We talked.
You talked.
Of your ex wife.
Of your hatred for her.
Of how she ruined your life.
Of how she betrayed you.
Of how you fought.
Of how you were not at fault.
Of your hatred for her.
Of your anger toward her.
Of your hatred for her.
Of your anger...
I called it a night.
You politely walked me to my car.
All the while, composing your email in your mind.
I was inconsiderate, rude.
I needed to be taught manners.
I was never so glad to have listened to my instincts.
Cool poem.
ReplyDeleteThanks! I'm trying to explore storytelling a little more. This seemed like a good way to go about that. When I was dating, I collected many crazy emails and noted lots of crazy dates down. I had always planned on writing something about those experiences at some point. I guess this is that manifesting itself in a way.
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